


Three Step Waltz

by DrabbleDistillery



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Complete, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Veela, creaturefic, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-25 05:46:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6182839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrabbleDistillery/pseuds/DrabbleDistillery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione learns that good things come in threes. Well, three stages, at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Step one

 

Hermione slid down the hallway, trying her absolute hardest not to make a sound as she slipped from the party. She could still feel those molten silver eyes on her, making her feel naked through all her layers of clothing. She blushed, fuming. The git had even had the gall to tell her she looked ravishing.

Good enough to eat.

Hermione had narrowly escaped when the cocktail waitress passed between them, darting through the crowd and out into the hall. As of late, Draco Malfoy had developed a nasty habit of turning up when Hermione least expected him, or desired his presence. And being that she never desired his presence, it was usually a tense and somewhat awkward affair. But something had changed. Suddenly she was always aware of his presence, and he cropped up with even more disturbing frequency, his bright eyes locked on her from across a room or crowded street. 

He seemed... Predatory. He certainly looked like he wanted to devour her. Hermione studiously ignored the tightening in her belly at the thought of it.

Last week he'd even come to her office, making casual conversation with her coworkers —but Hermione had seen straight through his ruse. He was there for her. She knew it with absolute certainty, although she wasn't sure how exactly she knew, which disturbed her more than she wanted to admit. They'd run into each other at the bookstore, getting coffee, even just browsing around Diagon Alley. And now, here he was at her department's charity auction, swaggering around the party, offering outstanding bids on everything, the bastard.

Worst of all, he was being so bloody _kindhearted_ that she couldn't talk to anyone about it! Even Harry and Ron had admitted it seemed like she was fishing for something to be upset about, but this was Malfoy. He always had ulterior motives. Hermione was sure of it.

Malfoy had become one of the Ethical Treatment of Magical Creatures Department's biggest benefactors, so of course no one but Hermone Granger found it strange that he chose to appear in the office in person when a liaison would have worked just as well. Of course no one but Hermione Granger found it odd that he repeatedly dropped into her private office to “check the status” of Hermione's projects, showing special interest in the Werewolf housing initiative she'd proposed.

All of which infuriated her even more.

Hermione scampered out the door, finally coming to a rest on the steps outside, where she could still hear the festivities continuing within. She scowled. Malfoy always had a way of turning serious events into parties. Although, she had to admit, the crowd he'd attracted was the bidding type.

“Ah, Miss Granger. Fancy seeing you here.” 

Hermione's heart thundered in her chest as an immeasurably expensive leather oxford came to rest on the stair beside her. She swallowed thickly, before dragging her reluctant gaze upward. Draco stared down at her, his expression knowing.

 

“Yes, imagine, me being at my own company party? An idea so ludicrous it defies explanation.” She said sourly. Draco ignored it.

“And yet here you are,” he intoned, sitting down next to her. "It would appear that miracles happen."

Hermione briefly wondered if Draco had been posessed by some sort of suave ghost. It would offer an explanation as to why he was sitting on the dirty steps of the Ministry of Magic in pants that Hermione assumed cost more than her rent. “I seemed to have lost track of you inside,” he said, his voice making it clear that he'd known where she was the entire time.

“Indeed,” Hermione replied curtly, and busied hersely studying a stain on the step below them. 

“I do hope no one outbids me on the portrait of Merlin riding the Unicorn, I rather like it,” he chatted amiably, ignoring Hermione's derisive snort.

 

“Malfoy, what is it you want from me, exactly?” she asked, turning fully to face him. Draco's eyes widened fractionally in surprise at her bluntness. Hermione pushed forward. “You're showing up at my job, I'm seeing you on the street. Are you stalking me?” she asked incredulously.

 

A slow smile spread across his face, and Draco began to laugh. A deep, hearty sound that made her mouth drop open in surprise. If her eyebrows could have flown off her face, Hermione suspected they would have. He ran a hand through his blond hair, tousling it, before turning back to her, still smiling. Hermione felt her stomach flip.

“I'm not stalking you, Hermione.” he replied smoothly, her name rolling off of his lips far too easily. “It's just...coincidence.”

Hermione decided instantly she liked it better when he called her “Granger”. At least then she didn't have to listen to her name slide so sensuously off of his perfect lips. She rolled her eyes, and Draco smirked, reminding her of their school days. “Come now. That's not fitting behavior for a Gryffindor lioness,” he remarked, grinning when she frowned sourly at him.“Or perhaps you're more of a kitten,” he purred, suddenly incredibly close, their noses inches apart. 

Hermione's heart pounded so loud she suspected he'd hear it, as close as he was. Suddenly she felt dizzy, as though looking into his luminous silver eyes had sucked all the breath out of her lungs, and before she knew what she was doing, Hermione was kissing him, and he growled into her mouth, nibbling on her lips. He disengaged from her, leaving light kisses on her swollen mouth while she recovered from... whatever that was.

As the realization of what she'd done set in, horror wrote its way across her expression. Draco stood, dusting himself off as though nothing unusual had transpired between them. 

“I was wrong, Hermione.” he said, smiling as though he knew something she didn't. She frowned, the git probably did. “You're certainly a lioness.” Draco disapparated with a crack, and Hermione laid her head in her hands, ignoring the urge to trace her lips with the pad of her finger.

“I'm not nearly drunk enough to excuse this,” she mumbled, before apparating home.

–

The entire next week, Hermione was on eggshells. She hadn't seen or heard from Draco since the night of the charity auction, and she didn't know how to feel about it. On one hand, the feeling of someone watching her had dissipated, which was nice, however, she hadn't expected to feel so... bereft. All the same, Hermione knew it was only a matter of time before he appeared again. She'd taken to closing her office door, coming in early, and leaving late, to avoid running into him in any of the Ministry elevators. She'd had luck thus far.

Luck that ran out Thursday morning.

 

Hermione had gotten up early, determined to beat Draco, and the morning floo traffic. She hated waiting 20, sometimes 30 minutes for a floo connection to the public entrance. Not to mention there was less chance of running into her stalker. Maybe he hadn't been lying? Maybe it was _just_ coincidence.

Hermione straightened her pencil skirt. Oh well. What was done was done. Something--or _someone_ \--had messed with her head that evening, and she was determined not to let it happen again. She just had to avoid being alone with him, surely that would solve it.

Hermione stepped through the floo into the Ministry Lobby, where a few early risers like herself were arriving, their footsteps echoing in the strangely quiet room. She headed to the elevators, and pressed the button, brushing a little floo powder off of her blouse. The door slid open, revealing Draco, leaning leisurely against the wall.

 

“Ah, Hermione.” He replied in a voice as smooth as honey, “Fancy meeting you here.” She gulped, hoping her cheeks weren't as red as she thought they were. She took a shaky step back.

“I'll catch the next one,” she choked out, but Draco's hand came forward and grasped hers, giving her arm a gentle tug. Hermione was unprepared, and her kitten heels offered no traction, sending her tumbling into the elevator just as the door closed. She landed against Draco's chest with a soft “oof” and he grinned lasciviously down at her.

“I wouldn't dream of it,” he purred, and Hermione snatched her arm back, straightening her clothes. She moved to the farthest corner of the elevator, pointedly looking anywhere but at him.

 

Hermione didn't respond, but muttered a few things under her breath that would have made her mother cry. she Somehow, he heard her, and raised his hand to his chest in mock surprise. 

“Language!” he hissed, his mirthful expression belying his sharp tone. She fought the smile that threatened to spread across her face. She would not be flirted with by that... that... stalker!

“I've got some language for you,” she growled, turning on him. Draco raised a single eyebrow as she poked a finger into his well muscled chest. Not that Hermione was paying attention to that. At all.  
Or the way the corners of his mouth turned up into a slight smile, and his eyes softened when he looked at her...

“I-I know what you're doing,” she said, her voice faltering. “Either you're spying on me, or you have your people spying on me!” she hissed.

“My people?” he said amusedly, and Hermione stomped her foot, shaking the elevator. 

“Whatever! Stop trying to... to...” she stammered, and Draco interjected.

“Get to know you?” he said gently, and she stepped back, her mouth open in shock. No. He wasn't. He couldn't be. Hermione shook her head.

 

“You aren't. You couldn't be." she said weakly. “So you're admitting you're following me?” Hermione accused him weakly, but Draco only smiled at her in that knowing way, and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.

“But I am. And I keep telling you, coincidence. I know Gruyffindors aren't the smartest bunch, but do try and listen," Draco replied, but she was too atartled to even process the insult. Hermione shook her head again, trying to ignore her racing pulse, and how acutely aware she was of his closeness. 

"No." she mumbled petulantly, squaring her jaw.

Draco reached past her to the control box, and tapped it once with his wand. The elevator slowed to a stop, before he leaned in close. “I am.”

“Why? Why me?” she asked, her voice trembling. For every galleon in Malfoy's bank account, Hermione wouldn't have admitted that her knees had turned to jelly, or that if she hadn't been leaning against the elevator wall, she'd have collapsed to the floor. Hermione wanted to admit even less the strange feeling pooling in her belly at his closeness. He hesitated, his warm eyes sweeping over her. Hermione had the strange feeling he was looking _through_ her, seeing everything she was.

“You're intelligent. That's putting it mildly, however I doubt your ego needs stoking on that particular point. You're beautiful,” he said, curling a lock of her thick hair about his index finger. “Quite beautiful. You're ambitious--you've grown your department from a Ministry joke into a force to be reckoned with. You're an incredibly powerful witch. I... I can't believe it's taken me this long to try to get to know you,” he breathed, his face was inches from her own. 

Suddenly the elevator began moving again, and the spell was broken. Draco was suddenly back on the other side of the elevator, straightening his clothes, his expression aloof, but smug.

“Does this often work for you, Malfoy?” she asked, after a moment of silence. "Cornering women in elevators?”

“Not usually, no.” He replied, as the elevator began to slow it's ascent. “But I have a good feeling about today.” Before she could retort, the doors opened, and he stepped through them, pausing on the landing. "Why don't you come to dinner with me tomorrow? I'll pick you up.”

“How do you know where I live?” She hissed, but Draco simply smirked cooly at her. “You're such a stalker.” Hermione muttered. The elevator dinged, and the doors closed, leaving her alone.

The rest of her work day was a nightmare. Hermione couldn't concentrate on a single thing other than that han how his breath had ghosted across her cheek, and the hungry expression on his face as he's looked down at her. By lunch, the pile of proposals on her desk had grown unmanageable. Her inbox was full to bursting with all manner of documents needing her signature, but Hermione didn't dare touch them after accidentally signing "Draco Malfoy" on one of them. In the Ministry cafeteria, Hermione attacked her sandwich with fervor, angrily grunting whe she chewed. 

"Are you okay?" asked one of her coworkers, eyeing her neevously. Hermione pursed her lips, crushing the bread between her fingers. 

"Just fine," she bit out, before taking another savage bite. "Stupid ferret," she grumbled, grabbing a coffee from one of the cafeteria elves before heading back to the office, where her staff scrambled to avoid her wrath. She clacked down the hallway with furious purpose, and one of the interns barely made it out of her way as she barreled by.

"Wait!" he called, his voice trembling. Hermione immediately felt awful. She'd been rampaging around the office for hours now, taking out her frustration on her staff.

“I-I've got a letter for you from an Ignatius Applewood, Ms. Granger,” the intern mumbled, thrusting the envelope forward. Hermione took the thick parchment from him gingerly.

“I'm sorry, Micheal, thank you.” She replied gratefully. 

Hermione dropped down in front of her desk, sighing. She kicked her shoes off, tossing it lightly onto the pile of things she'd try and deal with tomorrow. It hit the desk with a thud, signaling that it contained something other than the paperwork Hermione had assumed was enclosed. She picked it up, and tore it open.  
Inside, was a silver chain so thin it was almost invisible, and on it, a silver lion, rearing up on it's hind paws. There was a single slip of paper inside the envelope, which simply read “Wear this to dinner.” It bore no name or signature, but Hermione knew who it was from.

And in the privacy of her own office, with no one around to judge her, she smiled.  
–  
“So, what do you think I should do?” Hermione asked, and Ginny looked at her incredulously, putting down the glass of wine she'd been holding. They were sitting in Hermione's bedroom, on the floor, the bottle of Merlot half drunk between the two of them. 

“Obviously you're going,” Ginny replied, in a tone that brokered no argument. She got up, heading over to Hermione's closet, and began rifling through her clothes.

“You're supposed to be the sensible married one,” Hermione groused, and Ginny poked her head out the doorway, tutting. 

“One doesn't have to be sensible to be married," she replied, before returning to her raid. “Besides,” she called, her voice slightly muffled by dresses and coats. “He gave you that gorgeous necklace! You have to at least say thank you. And you left work early to get ready anyway. I don't see why you're hedging.”

Hermione blushed scarlet. “Ginny!” she hissed, her cheeks burning. She was right. Hermione had sped through the day, debating on whether or not she was going, what she would wear, whether Draco was really interested in her--and if she even wanted him to be. Ginny emerged from the closet, her arms laden with clothing Hermione had purposefully shoved to the back of the closet. She laid her finds on the bed, smoothing the wrinkles out with her wand.

“Why you shoved these to the back I'll never know,” she replied, surveying her handywork. Most of those dresses showed too much skin for work, and Hermione so rarely went out anyway that they had languished, forgotten. “I especially like this one,” Ginny replied, selecting a skin tight, lacy black dress, that came down a good few inches above Hermione's knees. The sleeves were short and off the shoulder, showing off more than enough skin. Hermione had bought it, intending to wear it on dates, but after she'd thrown herself headfirst into her job, dates had been hard to come by.

Ginny gently laid the necklace on top of it. “That's the ticket,” she said decisively, and shooed Hermione off into the bathroom. "You have ink on your cheek."

Hermione repaxed into the heat of the shower, turning so that the jets could pound her back.  
She was glad Ginny had come by, otherwise, she might have chickened out. When she'd owled her, fussing about what to wear, or even if she would go, Ginny had failed to respond. Instead, she'd tumbled through the fireplace floo, demanding to know everything.

When she emerged from the shower, Ginny was waiting for her in the bedroom, brush and wand in hand. Hermione frowned, and patted her hair absently. Her head still ached from the last time the redhead had insisted on styling Hermione's thick hair.

"Be gentle," she said sternly, but Ginny smirked, and tapped the top of Hermione's head with her wand, instantly drying it. She cautiously checked it in the mirror, these dryig spells tended to frizz out her hair, but it looked fine.

"I've been practicing," she replied smugly. 

Ginny took twenty minutes to style her hair into a stylishly messy chignon at the base of her neck, and —after Hermione forced her out of the room to put on her clothes—applied her makeup. Just as she'd pushed Ginny back through the floo with promises of all the details, a knock came at her flat door. Swallowing thickly, Hermione steeled her nerves. 

She waited a few minutes, stalling. Ginny had offered that particular tidbit. _"Make him wait,"_ she'd said, motioning for Hermione to close her eyes as she applied her makeup. _"They always appreciate it a little more when you make them wait."_

She opened the door, to find Draco, leaned casually against the frame as though he'd just gotten there. 

“Oh good, you're ready,” he said, his eyes sweeping over her appreciatively. Hermione couldn't help but feel devoured. “Our reservation is for seven, so we should hurry.” 


	2. Step Two

Step Two

Upon arrival, Hermione was completely sure that Malfoy must have gotten a kick out of turning every public outing into a show. He'd escorted Hermione into the establishment before greeting the first of the paparazzi with a wink and a wave. Within moments they were swarming outside, a mass of teeming bodies and flashbulbs.

“You know, when you said you had reservations, I assumed you'd actually bothered to reserve something,” Hermione replied, spreading her napkin across her lap. He chuckled, but didn't respond. Upon their arrival at Crosses, Draco had simply skipped the line, nodding to the maitre'd. Hermione had tagged along behind him, nervously waiting to be stopped by management. But no one said anything—a waiter even followed behind them silently, apparently waiting for them to seat themselves, his gilded name tag bouncing on his robes as he walked. Malfoy simply strode through the restaurant, eyeing the free tables, frowning.

“No, I'm afraid this won't do,” he'd said airily. “What about the balcony?” he asked, gesturing to the roped off stairway, leading up to the open air balcony in the front of the restaurant. Draco flashed a dazzling smile, and the man's freckled face reddened.

“I, er, we um, we don't seat it, normally, Sir Malfoy, I..” he stammered, fumbling with his uniform. Draco raised an eyebrow, and the server patted his brow, beads of nervous sweat trickling down his pointy nose. “I can... I'll see what we can do,” he replied, rushing off. Ten minutes later, and he was leading them up to the freshly cleaned and set balcony, while the crowd of photographers below tried to catch a glimpse of them.

Draco, apparently, was used to this. He seemed to barely notice their muffled voices, or the occasional flash of the cameras from the street below. Hermione, however, was on edge. _I have nothing to be nervous about,_ she thought to herself, straightening in her seat. _This is not a date. I am not on a date with Draco Malfoy. I am an adult woman casually eating dinner with an adult man._

“They can't get a good picture from down there,” he intoned, apparently sensing her nerves. So he had noticed them. “There's a privacy screen, don't worry.” Draco said, smiling softly. Her breath hitched. _This is NOT a date._

“Oh,” she replied stupidly. “I see.” She blushed, and his old smirk flashed across his face.  
One of the things Hermione had come to learn about Malfoy was that he always had a mask firmly in place. A public face that he'd carefully constructed, and looking at his life, she understood why. Especially after the war, Draco had slipped easily into the role of billionaire playboy—a little too well. Hermione knew better than most how hard it was to run from your demons.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” she blurted after a moment of silence. “For the necklace.” Her hand came up to gently rest on the thin chain against her neck.

“How did you know it was me?” he asked, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Well for one, I doubt Harry or Ron would be overdramatic enough to send me a mysterious package with a fake name,” she replied, sipping her water. Draco smiled. The waiter came back, bearing the menus.

“Would you like to hear about some of tonight's specials, Sir Malfoy?”

Hermione couldn't help but snicker. Draco gracefully ignored her, shaking his head. “No, Phillipe, I think I'll order the lamb for myself, and, if I may order for the lady?” he asked, cocking his head at her. Hermione felt her face heat up, and nodded. _My head is going to explode if my face gets any redder,_ she thought sourly. Ron had never ordered her anything but fish and chips at the pub near their old flat.

“Go ahead, Malfoy,” she said, still unwilling to cross the line into calling him Draco. Out loud, at least.  
“I think the shrimp and scallops, with the fresh linguini and crème sauce. And a merlot, to start, please.”

Hermione smiled despite herself. He had good taste. The server strode away down the steps, leaving Hermione and Draco alone once again. His silver eyes found hers once more, and Hermione felt her stomach tighten. “You're welcome. For the pendant.” he drawled, the low timbre of his voice echoing in her ears despite the low chatter from the restaurant below, and the crowd of slowly dispersing reporters. “I thought of you when I saw it,” he murmured, his eyes sweeping across her chest. 

Hermione played with the chain nervously. “Thank you, Malfoy.” The server returned with a bottle of wine, leaving it opened on the table. Draco poured them both glasses, setting the bottle down with a flourish. Hermione smiled—he certainly had showmanship. “Good trick. They teach you how to bartend in the family mansion?” she joked, and his lips twitched upward in a smile.

“Yes. My parents were quite adamant about my learning valuable skills like bar-keeping and dish washing.”

Hermione giggled. “It looks lovely on you,” he replied earnestly, gesturing to the necklace resting against her throat. Hermione twisted her napkin in her lap, unsure of what to say. _This is not a date._

“So you've been here before?” she asked, taking a rather large gulp of her wine.

“No,” he admitted, looking around appreciatively. “My name still carries a certain amount of weight, fortunately for us.” he replied. Hermione sighed. As much as things changed... The waiter appeared at the top of the steps, uncovering a dish of lightly fried calamari. He laid it on the table, and Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Did you...?” she asked, looking down at the plate. Phillipe cleared his throat.

“It's, er... on the house,” he said lamely, and Hermione figured it was probably the work of an overzealous floor manager, eager to please a Malfoy. As much as she hated the limelight, at least she'd been able to escape it after Harry and Ron's much more public careers eclipsed her little desk job. Draco would never be allowed that small relief.  
He smiled in that aloof, photogenic way, and thanked the server, who scampered down the stairs and was gone. He reached forward, plucking a piece from the platter, and popped it into his mouth. He   
licked his lips, sending Hermione's pulse skyrocketing. 

“At least it's good,” he replied, scooping some onto his appetizer plate.

Hermione did likewise, her stomach growling. They chatted amiably, and Hermione was continually surprised by her lack of desire to vomit. He was charming and intelligent, and actually listened to what she had to say without his eyes glazing over or falling asleep. He asked about her job, her parents, her life.

“So why'd you break up with _Ronald_?” Draco asked as the waiter set their dinner plates down in front of them. “We had running bets in Slytherin about how long it would last.” He said, resting his napkin in his lap.

“Oh did you?” she replied smoothly, cocking her head at him. “How much did you win?” she asked, her voice hard.

“I lost, actually.” he replied, his luminous eyes boring into hers, making her stomach do strange flip- flops.

Hermione's cheeks colored, and her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh.” They both began to eat, and after a moment, she spoke again. “It just... it wasn't working. He was away too much, I was too focused on my job.” The night it ended, they'd quarreled loudly and publicly, at Harry and Ginny's rehearsal dinner at the Hogshead pub. It had been ugly. Hermione couldn't remember jinxing him, but somehow he'd ended up face first in the dessert table, covered in pudding. They'd both stormed off; Hermione to her own flat, where she finished—and started—a bottle of wine on her own, and written a very crudely worded breakup letter, and Ron had woken up in some adoring fan's bed.

“I was there,” Draco said quietly, and Hermione looked up, startled.

“You-you were there?” she asked incredulously, her cheeks colored in embarrassment. She'd hoped that embarrassing spectacle was behind her, but he'd witnessed it.

“That's... that's when I...” he trailed off, as though looking for the words to complete his thought.  
“Became interested?” she supplied, and he nodded curtly.

“You saw me allegedly hex a man into a table laden with dessert and you thought to yourself 'now there's a witch I can see myself with'?” she asked, leaning forward in her seat. Draco laughed hard, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

“Mother always said I needed a witch who would keep me on my toes.” 

“Yes, and apparently curse you off of them.”

Draco spent the evening poking and prodding at her, asking intimate questions that Hermione, surprisingly, wasn't too irritated to answer.

“So, who was your first?” she asked, catching him off guard. Draco's eyes flashed, and his face reddened, surprising her. He coughed, and she giggled.

“Astoria Greengrass,” he replied, and she nodded.

“I can see that,” Hermione quipped, and he rounded on her.

“Who was yours? Weaselby?"

“I'm not telling you that!” she shrilled, her cheeks red. Draco smirked at her in that way that made it hard for her to remember her own name, but she held fast.

“Come on,” he wheedled, lifting his glass to his lips. “It can't be that bad. I told you mine,” he said smoothly, the baritone of his voice weakening her resolve.

Hermione played absently with a lock of her hair, before muttering a name. Draco leaned forward in his seat, grinning like a madman. “What was that? I couldn't hear you,” he drawled, and Hermione's face colored.

“Cormac. Mc.Laggen.” she spat, her stomach rolling. Draco's eyebrows shot up, and he slumped in his seat, staring at her slack jawed.

“You're joking.”

“I'm not. And you're the only person who knows, so shut it,” she bit out, draining her wine glass. They'd worked their way through the previous bottle, and were now on a second. What she'd said hadn't been strictly true—Ginny knew too, but if there was anything Ginevra Weasley could keep to herself, it was a secret.

“How—how did that even come to be?” he asked, his voice strained from holding back riotous laughter.

“Well... Graduation... I'd had a lot to drink,” she said slowly, swirling her wine around her glass.

“How much is a lot?” he replied, staring pointedly at the wine. Hermione's face reddened.

“Two entire bottles of firewhiskey.” She replied, and Draco scoffed. “By myself.” His mouth dropped open. She couldn't blame him—whenever she herself looked back on that somewhat hazy evening, she wondered how her kidneys hadn't simply shut down from the level of alcohol she'd introduced into her system. Like her peers, Hermione had indulged in alcohol—perhaps a little too much after the war.

“What about Weasley?” he asked incredulously, his eyes bright. He held her gaze, and Hermione got the feeling that her answer here would be a lot more important than just throw away information. She sighed.

“We were taking a break,” she said defensively. It was true—she and Ronald had taken a few months break—her idea. Ronald was determined to stick a ring on her finger, and although she loved him, Hermione wasn't ready for that kind of commitment at eighteen, having just come out of a war with just as many physical scars as mental ones. Ronald had reacted so badly to the idea of their separation that when Hermione gave in—and gave him three more years of her life—she'd never had the heart to tell him he hadn't been her first.

She shuddered at the memory of Cormac's drunken kisses. At least now she had a better grasp on exactly how much alcohol she could imbibe before completely loosing all impulse control.

“You have my silence,” Draco replied solemnly, making a locking motion next to his mouth. Hermione giggled.

“Good,” she replied, cocking her head. “I'd hate to hear what my mother would think.”

Draco's expression tightened. “Your parents, they..” his words hung unfinished in the air, clouding their conversation with unspoken tension. _They lived?_ had been what he was going to ask, she was sure of it.

“Yeah,” Hermione said, unable to hide the relief that still colored her voice whenever she thought about it. “They made it.” It had been harrowing, trying to restore her parents memories, and she'd worried they'd never forgive her. Their relationship was slightly strained, but they had understood, in the end. Either way, she was glad to have them alive and displeased with her than dead.

“Well, my parents just moved out of London, actually. Tired of all the noise. I think they actually miss Australia,” she replied. “And your...” she stopped, shortly. She was almost afraid to ask about his family. Lucius had served five years in Azkaban—after an incredibly public trial that had dragged on for a year, and Draco had narrowly skirted a prison sentence himself. Hermione was one of the lucky ones; Harry and Ron had pursued much more public careers, allowing her to fade into the background to deal with her healing on a much more private level. 

Every step Draco had made out of the darkness had been publicly critiqued, photographed, and rigorously documented. She felt bad for letting the conversation steer itself in this direction, but there was nothing she could do about it now. They sat in uncomfortable silence, as their dinner grew steadily colder.

“My parents are currently under house arrest,” Draco replied lightly after a moment, although his voice had a hard edge to it. “They made bad choices. Did awful things.” his voice was tight and pained, as though he were remembering things he'd rather forget. Hermione looked down at her plate, not entirely sure this was something he wanted her to witness. “They're... trying.” he finished, taking a savage bite of his lamb, his silver eyes cold and luminous, like the moon. His sorrow was palpable.

“Malfoy, I...” He looked at her, and desperation flitted across his features before his mask slipped firmly back into place, leaving Hermione wondering what exactly had just transpired between them.

“So, why did you choose the Ministry?” he asked suddenly, and Hermione frowned, her brow furrowed. It was _just_ like Draco to clam up when things were getting too personal. He'd had no problem asking her all manner of uncomfortable questions, but when it was his turn, he couldn't open up. It was like there was something he was hiding from her, pieces of himself that were too fragile to show her.

“You can't just change the subject like that,” Hermione replied hotly, frustration coloring her voice.

“I can, and I have,” he replied smoothly, casting a warming charm on both their plates. “Why the Ministry?” he asked again, his voice strangely compelling. Her head felt fuzzy, and Hermione had to fight through the daze to regain her anger.

“But we were--”

“Just talking about your entrance into the Ministry after graduating with numerous honors from Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” he finished, digging back into his dinner. Hermione sighed.

“I... well it was the first position offered to me. I just... I wanted to help people after the war, but the bureaucracy and the paper pushing are just so...” she struggled to find words for her dissatisfaction at work. Sometimes she was jealous of her friends, who were completely happy with their career choices and families—no internal turmoil about their place in the world.

“Pointless?” Draco supplied, his expression understanding.

“Exactly,” she agreed, giving up completely on their previous conversation. It would be something she'd broach later—if there even was a later.

“That's why I donated,” he said quietly, and Hermione got the feeling his words were genuine. “What would you do instead?” he asked, and she felt her heart flutter in her chest. She hadn't talked to anyone about this, not even Ginny. What magic was he working on her?

She paused for a moment, before divulging. “I want to write a book,” she said slowly, watching his face for a reaction. “I want to make magic more accessible to people like me, people like Lupin—all the people who Voledmort tried to take it from.” her voice seemed to echo in the small space, and she waited, with baited breath. It was silly, really, how could one hope to accomplish that with one book?  
But instead of chastising her, Draco only nodded. 

“That is certainly something you'd do,” he said, smiling lightly.

“You think that's something I could do?” she asked, hating how vulnerable she sounded. His smile widened, and relief spread through her.

“Of course. Any publisher would go mad for a book by golden girl Hermione Granger,” he said sarcastically, but his voice held no real bite.

The tension eased off between them, although now, she had a pretty good idea of which hot buttons not to press with Draco now. Finally, when they'd worked their way through the meal, Phillipe the waiter brought out two steaming mugs of coffee. Hermione leaned over her cup, inhaling the aroma.

“How did you know I loved coffee?” she asked suspiciously, wondering again if he'd had someone tailing her.

“Just a guess,” he said, raising his hands placatingly. “Honestly.”

By the time they left the restaurant, most of the paparazzi had dispersed, for which Hermione was grateful. She could see the headlines now-- _“Draco Malfoy dates Gryffindor Princess Hermione Granger!”_

She definitely didn't need _that_ right now. The apparation point near her flat was about three blocks away, and Draco insisted on walking her the entire way home. She lived in a muggle neighborhood, and had modified her flat herself. There would be no one to report on their activities here, at least.

“I... I had fun,” she admitted, leaning against her building's entryway. Draco loomed over her, his hair illuminated by the silvery moonlight beaming down on them.  
“I'm glad,” he purred, and suddenly Hermione felt like prey again, trapped between her door and those bright, luminous eyes of his. He leaned forward, and her breath caught, and she braced herself for the kiss she desperately wanted.

Suddenly Draco made a pained sound in his throat, and backed away, his face pale. Hermione felt off kilter, as though her feet had been kicked out from underneath her. The silence between them was thick, and Hermione was absolutely certain he could hear her every breath.

 

“Good night, Kitten,” he murmured, his eyes wild. He disappeared with a pop, leaving her panting against the doorframe.

Draco Malfoy had been nothing less than a perfect gentleman. And Hermione Granger deeply, deeply wished that he hadn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you guys enjoyedthe second chapter of "Three Step Waltz"!! Please leave a review if you're so inclined :)


	3. Step Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, my life went a little off the rails recently, and I wasn't happy with this chapter, so I rewrote it about seven times. I hope you all enjoy the (unexpectedly late) conclusion!

Step three

The following day, Hermione heard nothing from Draco. She wasn't so naive as to expect him waiting at her door the next morning with flowers, but she expected…. she wasn’t sure what she expected but it was more than what she got from him that weekend, which was nothing. 

Monday, Hermione had gotten a gilded silver fountain pen. Then, a charm bracelet. Wednesday, she simply got a note saying that Draco was thinking of her. That was her favorite gift. By Wednesday evening, Hermione had also received a new fashionable new thigh holster for her wand (she suspected this gift had ulterior motives, as it sat rather high up on her leg, and was embellished with a silver chain), and a silver snake pendant for her new charm bracelet, which were all piled neatly in wrapped boxes in front of her apartment door. 

Despite all of this, Hermione was frustrated. She wanted to actually see Draco again, not just feel his presence through gifts he was leaving for her. She’d even begun leaving her office door open again, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. On Thursday, she heard his voice at the office, and smiled in spite of herself. He was here to apologize. He had to be. She padded over to the office door, and peeped out, just in time to see the back of his blond head disappear into the elevator.

He hadn’t even stopped by her office.

Dejectedly, she slunk back to her desk, slamming the door rather loudly. By Friday night, she’d still heard nothing from him. Hermione had stopped letting his owls in, and had instead been directing his gifts to the office’s lost and found, where she hoped they would find worthy owners. After eating more popcorn and ice cream than she was comfortable admitting to even herself, she floo’d Ginny. 

“And you haven’t heard anything from him since?” 

“He’s been sending me presents. But I haven’t seen him.” she said sourly, wondering where he was, because she certainly knew exactly where he _wasn’t._ A sudden pang of jealousy left an acrid taste in her mouth, and she wondered if he’d decided to get his hands on someone… easier. 

It wasn’t as though he didn’t have options. 

“Hermione, you stop that.” Ginny snapped, her image in the flames flickering. Hermione scowled, crossing her legs. 

“Stop what?” she replied, and Ginny rolled her eyes.

“You’re overthinking again. You’re coming up with the most painful scenario possible, but you don’t even know what’s been going on.”

Hermione sighed. She hated when Ginny was right. “Now move over, I’m coming through.” she stood up, and began to step through the flames, and Hermione scrambled out of the way to avoid any cinders. She’d been sitting cross legged in front of the fireplace, on her rug, which Ginny had smeared ashes all over, time and time again. 

“What did he get you?” she asked, and Hermione fought down the warm feeling in her chest. She hadn’t thrown out his first gifts, only the ones after he’d declined to even speak to her. She’d felt bad throwing them away after she’d opened and kept them, so she’d taken them home and put them in her desk, refusing to acknowledge their presence. 

She showed them to Ginny, who ‘ooh’ed and ‘aah’ed over them, which secretly infuriated Hermione even more. What was the point of these damn things if he didn’t give them to her himself? Something about the lack of his presence grated against her nerves. She hadn’t been sleeping well, and her irritation at her friend was only proof of how foul he’d made her mood. Looking at them reminded her of how much she wanted their strange dance to continue, but they still felt like consolation prizes. 

“Lets go out, Ginny,” she said decisively, slamming the drawer shut, narrowly missing her friend’s quick fingers. “I want to have fun.”

“I don’t know if that’s the best idea,” she replied, a single red eyebrow quirked at her outburst. “The last time you said that, the night ended with me swearing never to tell anyone about Cor—”

“Ginny!”

“What, it’s true! You did! And, I never told, I might add.”

Hermione scowled. “If you won’t come, I’ll go by myself.”

“No, no, I’m coming. I want to bear witness to this.”

While Ginny briefed Harry on what was likely to be the largest and most spectacular mistake Hermione ever made, Hermione decided to get dressed up. She was only going to go for a few drinks with friends, but there was no harm in looking sharp, was there? Elbowing her way into the closet, she forced her way to the back, where Ginny had neatly re-hung all of her more… risqué clothing. There was a strapless peachy number, with a sweetheart neckline, and a flowy—but short—bottom. She grabbed it, shimmying in. She stepped out into the living room, and Ginny swallowed audibly. She too had changed, and apparently, she was dragging poor Harry with them. He was wearing a rumpled dress shirt and slacks. 

“Hermione, you look….”

“Hot!” Ginny said excitedly. “I think I bought that dress, actually,” she remarked thoughtfully. “To the bar!”

 

~

 

It was Friday, so of course the pub was packed with sweaty, writhing bodies. It was strange, though. All the men she smiled at, immediately looked away, as though something was wrong with her. She felt cold, distant. This wasn’t what she’d planned at all. Figuring some liquid courage would help, she’d sauntered over to the bar with her friends.

“Hermione don't you think you're being a little.. Extreme?” Harry replied, yelling to be heard over the music. She shook her head. All night, she'd been feeling watched, jumpy and anxious. 

Like prey, she realized. 

“No, Harry, I don't,” she sniffed, and leaned over the bar, ordering another drink. Somehow, she knew Draco would know she was out. Without him. “How would you feel? It’s not like we’re exclusive,” she said defensively. “If I were seeing someone, don’t you think they’d feel obligated to send something a little more than a bloody note?” she scowled, downing the rest of her drink.

“You have every right to be upset, Hermione. But trying to make him jealous?”

“T-that’s not what I’m doing!” she sputtered, her cheeks red. “I’m just coming out for a drink with some of my oldest friends. Isn’t that allowed?” 

“Yes, but—“

“Can I buy you a drink?” said a voice in her ear, and Hermione turned, her heart thudding, expecting to see Malfoy, standing with that confident swagger. Instead, there was only a stranger, with sandy brown hair, and wide blue eyes. Her pulse slowed to a crawl. He didn’t seem as put off by her as the others. 

“Sure,” she said, although she wasn't, really. She accepted it gracefully. “Thank you….?”

“Frank,” he said, smiling widely, showing perfect white teeth. 

“This is Harry, and Ginny.”

“Shit, you’re, you’re Harry Potter, aren’t you? I was two years behind you, at Hogwarts!” he exclaimed, reaching forward to shake Harry’s hand. Harry smiled politely, and continued to down his beer. He began nattering on and on about Quidditch, politics, anything and everything that seemed to cross his mind. It had been nice for someone to pay attention to her, but the pleasure she’d felt from that was quickly fading. Frank wrapped his meaty hand around her waist, and she’d had to politely slip out of it, the sheer wrongness of his touch was almost nauseating. He’d insisted on dancing with her, trying to pull her flush against him. It was like fighting a very grabby squid!

When she’d finally had enough, she bid her friends goodnight. Surprisingly, the’d been having a blast, and she suspected it was the first time they’d been out together in months. Harry’s Auror position was so demanding, and Ginny spent so much time at her own job, they only seemed to see each other at meals. Oh well, at least something positive had come of her botched outing. 

“Bye Frank,” she said, kissing him chastely on the corner of his mouth. He leaned down, intending on capturing her lips, but she turned her head, thwarting him for the last time before disapparating. The husky man had seemed slightly put off, but she couldn’t care less, and began making her way home. She’d wanted to feel sexy and validated, but now she only felt lonely, and isolated. It wasn’t fair. Draco was probably out somewhere, having a blast, not even thinking of her, and here she was, miserable because after one date, and what had seemed like impossible chemistry, he was gone again.

But this time, she actually missed him. 

Hermione dragged her feet up the steps, pushing open the building door, before heading up to her apartment. As she searched her purse for her keys, warm arms encircled her, pressing her into the wall beside her flat door. She yelped, fear tightening her throat, but then, she calmed. Immediately, she was aware it was Draco, breathing heavily against her shoulder. She knew she should be afraid, but the warmth spreading through her at his sudden appearance cancelled out any rational thought. 

“Why,” he growled, pressing his lips to the base of her throat, biting just hard enough to leave marks, “Would you tease me like that?” he whispered, his lips pressed against the sensitive skin of her ear. 

“So you admit,” she panted, writhing against him, “That you've been following me?”

“Only tonight,” he hedged, pressing his face into the crook of her neck. There was something different about him. Animalistic. Alluring. Hermione's head felt cloudy, as though she'd drunk much more than she had. She pushed him away from her slightly, to get a better look at him. He looked rumpled, as though he’d slept in his clothes. His eyes looked dark and haunted, as though what sleep he’d gotten wasn’t nearly enough. His hair, though clean, was slightly limp, and lusterless, and his face was drawn. 

Their eyes met, and his seemed to glow silver in the dim light of the hallway, his breathing ragged.

“Veela,” she breathed. “You're veela.” There had been a rumor while they were in school that one of Draco’s ancestors was a veela, but Hermione had never believed it. After all, he boasted so much about his pure blood, she couldn’t have conceived of any one of his predecessors having slipped up in such a socially unacceptable manner. But apparently they had. 

Draco grinned, his rough appearance doing nothing to diminish his handsomeness. “I always knew you were a smart girl.”

He descended on her mouth like a man possessed, and she responded eagerly, opening her mouth to him when he pressed his insistent tongue against her lips. She moaned heavily and pushed at his chest with weak arms.

“As much as I appreciate the compliment,” she said, rolling her hips into his prominent erection, “Could we possibly continue this inside?”

“Mmm,” Draco intoned, not bothering to lift his head from her neck, where his lips continued doing sinful things. She fumbled in her purse for her keys, while Draco's hands roamed her body. Impatiently, she alohamora'd the stupid door, and pushed inside, and was immediately pinned against the other side by his body. His claws ripped easily through her dress, and she didn't care.

“No bra? Minx,” he murmured, pinching one taut nipple. Draco leaned down and licked up the side of her face, where Frank had kissed her. “Did his mouth feel this good on you, Hermione?” he snarled, and she moaned, unable to help herself. “Do you know,” he said, shredding his own clothes in his haste to get out of them, “How crazy it drove me... watching you... dancing with him?” he growled, his hands playing at the waistband of her lacy underwear. 

“Plenty crazy I imagine,” she panted, clawing at his back. Draco chuckled. “Why were you watching?” she said breathlessly, the words mixing with the moans escaping her throat. His teeth tugged at her earlobe, before his tongue soothed the bite. 

“How could I not? It took everything I had to drive them off of you, with you dressed like that,” he growled, his hands roughly cupping her breasts. So that was why no one had wanted to speak to her!

“That was you?” she shrilled, shoving at his shoulders. Draco was immovable, like a boulder, and he paid her efforts no mind. 

“Don't make me glamour you again,” he said breathily, running his tongue along the shell of her ear. 

Hermione's every nerve ending was alive, her blood singing with his voice. God she needed him. 

“Oh, is that what you call it when your eyes get all glowy and my mind goes to mush?” she intoned, thrusting her breasts forward into his questing hands. Draco's laugh thrummed through her, resonating straight to her core.

“That's exactly what I call it, although I think you explain it far better than I ever could,” he murmured, lifting her effortlessly into his arms. “Which way is the bedroom?” he asked, and Hermione's cheeks colored.

“How traditional of you, Malfoy,” she said, his name tasting like fine wine on her tongue. He smirked.

“I can fuck you against the door, if you prefer,” he said smoothly, and she shook her head hurriedly. 

“Second room on the left, down the hall.” 

In moments, Draco had deposited her on the bed, and was covering her body with his own, his mouth and tongue tracing delicious patterns on her exposed skin. 

“There won't be anyone else for me but you,” he panted, inching her lacy boyshorts down. Draco dropped wet kisses on the inside of her thigh. “And I can never let you go.”

Surprisingly, Hermione was alright with this. 

She ran her fingers through his hair, marveling at how soft it was. “Why didn't you just tell me?” she moaned, as his fingers grazed the lips of her sex, dripping wet with anticipation. His eyes were wide with wonder, as though she were the most amazing thing he'd ever seen. He planted another sloppy kiss on Hermione's inner thigh, and she moaned, rocking her hips.

“Wanted to show you I was really interested,” he muttered, inhaling her scent deeply. “Had to be sure you wanted me too.” His tongue darted out, running along her slit. “Sweet,” he murmured. “I knew you would be sweet.”

Hermione wanted to retort, but stars exploded behind her eyes as his lips closed about her clit, and she cried out, her hips rocking into his hands and mouth. 

“Ah, Draco!” she groaned, her hands finding her breasts, and pinching her nipples hard. She lost the ability to form sentences—all that mattered was him, was that he continue making her feel this way. Hermione moaned and arched her back as he penetrated her with a single finger, and then two.

“Stop teasing me,” she demanded, and he smirked up at her. Hermione blushed, unable to look away from his face, stained by her wetness, his hand still pumping between her legs.

“As you wish,” he purred, sliding every inch of his body against hers as he rose. Draco settled over her comfortably, as if it was where he belonged. Although perhaps, in retrospect, that wasn't such a far off claim. Before he could enter her, Hermione grabbed his shoulders, pushing him down onto the bed. Draco growled, but didn't move as she crept her way down his body, her warm brown eyes locked on his. 

Hermione began by laving open kisses against his large, engorged cock, and Draco's eyes rolled back into his head, his mouth open. “Hermione,” he groaned, and she decided she liked hearing her name like that. “Fuck, kitten,” he panted, his fingers tangling in her hair. She gently massaged his balls with one hand, while she bobbed on his dick, taking more and more of him into her mouth with each pass, until he was entirely in her throat, moaning, mumbling incoherent bits of sentences.

“The whole thing,” he groaned. “Taking the whole thing...”

And then his hands were on her shoulders, pulling her up. Hermione pouted. “I promise you can have another go at that after we go a few rounds,” he said raggedly. “You're too good at it.” Draco climbed back on top of her, rubbing his swollen member against her wet folds. Just as Hermione was about to demand that he fuck her, Draco penetrated her with practiced ease, grinding his cock against a spot that made her see stars. 

Hermione's complaints dissolved into a satisfied groan. “Draco,” she panted, and he took her mouth with his own, sucking on her lip as he rocked into her. Soon, Hermione was meeting his every thrust, and he was groaning obscenities into her mouth. 

“My tight little witch,” he crooned, throwing her leg over his shoulder, fucking her deeper. “Mine,” he chanted. “Mine, mine, mine.”

Hermione's nails scored his back, there was something coiling inside her, burning pleasure, too much for her to handle. She cried out his name, and then devolved into muttering a stream of curses as he pistoned into her. 

“Fuck, Draco--! Shit, shit, shit,” she gasped, arching her breasts into his mouth. He leaned in close, not missing a beat. 

“I love your dirty mouth, witch,” he panted. “I love everything about you, Hermione.”

She cried out, the coil tightening. “Cum for me, Hermione,” Draco groaned. “Cum for me, Kitten.” Hermione's orgasm crashed over her, her body trembling. 

“Draco--!” She spasmed around him, her walls milking him as Draco shuddered and groaned, chanting her name like a prayer as he emptied himself into her. 

They stayed like that, sweating and sticky, but utterly satiated.

“Do you think you'll be getting of off me any time soon?” Hermione groused good naturedly, as Draco leaned down to kiss her forehead.

“Getting off on you, you say? Give me a few more minutes love, and I'll be ready to go again.” he murmured, nuzzling his face into her neck. Hermione traced patterns on his muscled back with the pads of her fingers. 

“I don’t think I can handle another round. And at least let me turn on the fan. It's hot, and it smells like a brothel in here.” Draco refused to budge. 

“I like that it smells like a brothel in here.” he said petulantly, and Hermione grinned despite herself.

“Would you have believed me if I'd told you I knew you were my mate when you and Weasel broke up?” he asked after a moment, the smooth baritone of his voice thrumming through her body. Draco was resting his head on her chest, stroking her thigh absently. “Would you have believed a word I said?”

Hermione pouted indignantly. She wanted to say that of course she would have believed him, but she knew it wasn't true. She wouldn't have.

“Damn it, Malfoy. Is that why you kept running into me? You weren't... following me?” she asked, and he nodded. 

“I think, under the circumstances, using my given name might be more appropriate,” he intoned, nipping the side of her breast. She yelped and slapped at his arm. Draco grunted, but didn't move.

“Draco.” she said softly. It was funny how screaming someone's name at the height of orgasm felt less personal than using it in a quiet moment, silence broken only by their breathing.

“Draco.”

He leaned up, grinning wolfishly. His eyes were bright, but not glowing, for which Hermione was thankful—she didn't think she could handle a second session. “Much better, love,” he whispered, his lips barely touching the skin of her cheek. Draco dragged his thumb across her nipple, and Hermione shuddered, sighing.

“Why did you back off?” she asked, playing absently with the silky strands of his hair. “Why send me all those silly presents when all I wanted was to see you?” Hermione questioned, some of the earlier hurt worming it's way into her voice. She couldn’t help it, she was still hurt. 

“I... do you know how hard it was to be around you?” he asked, suddenly sounding vulnerable. “I could barely control myself. At the pub… It took everything I had not to attack Frank.” Draco spat out the name as though it were a curse. Hermione blushed.

“I'm sorry about that. But you weren't speaking to me! I had no way of knowing,” she said defensively, and Draco shrugged, nuzzling closer to her. “It’s not like we were dating.” she muttered, burying her head in his shoulder. 

“It doesn't matter,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by her skin as he trailed light kisses against her collarbone.“You're mine now,” he stated decisively, as though daring her to challenge it. Hermione sighed dramatically.

“So I suppose I shan't be inviting Frank to my parent's Christmas party, then,” she said, exaggerating the disappointment in her voice. Draco growled, his hand cupping her pussy, fingers sliding through her still wet folds. She keened softly. 

Okay.

Maybe she could handle another round. 

 

End.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've worked on in years, so it's nice to get back into the game. I hope you enjoyed it, please leave a review! Don't fret. The fic is finished, and I'll be posting the chapters every few days. :)


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